


The Anthill

by piggy09



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-11-26 10:46:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20928944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piggy09/pseuds/piggy09
Summary: A collection of letters, accounts, and records pertaining to Raishan the green dragon.





	The Anthill

An incomplete list of lies said by Raishani, the green dragonii, the Diseased Deceiveriii, the eyes and mouth and mind of the Chroma Conclaveiv, the Ruination of the Stormcrestv, the blight of the junglesvi and the scourge of the oceansvii, known as Raishan by the Fire Ashariviii and later known as their destructionix:

1\. I don’t understand what that means.  
2\. Of course you can trust me.  
3\. Of course you can trust her.  
4\. I am stronger than any of you.  
5\. I am not strong enough to hurt any of you.  
6\. I love you.  
7\. I’m sorry.

* * *

—_and the Dragon came in a cloud of green Smoke to destroy our village, to cleanse it with the might of its Magics and the sharp points of its Talons. We begged it for Mercy but it would not hear us. We offered it Treasures but it would not partake; it threw them aside and broke our Bones between its Teeth. The Dragon has taken my son and my daughter and my wife away, and I know not where._

_I asked it, Why have you spared me?_

_It hissed, So you will know my Fury, and you will tell my story to Others, and they will carry the Fear of me in their bellies for all of Eternity._

* * *

8\. If you search the left hallways, I will search the second floor.  
9\. Yes, I think you’re very beautiful.  
10\. I respect your authority absolutely.   
11\. I know better than to attempt falsehoods with you.

* * *

Her scales are pushed up at their edges by the violent bulging of pus-filled blisters; the elegant angles of her body’s natural armor are thrown completely into disgrace. There is some sort of throbbing boil tucked into the hollow of her throat that is the size and color of his skull.

“Well?” says the dragon. “Have you seen its like before or not.”

He casts Detect Magic; the dragon lights up humming with layer after layer of arcane power, old and slow and immensely strong. The spreading sickness on her neck pulses with its own contained loop of tainted energy.

“Let me attempt—” he says, and touches the holy symbol tucked around his neck. His other hand he places – gently – against the ribbons of disease on her throat. _Please_, he whispers to his deity, and he channels a Greater Restoration into the dragon.

He tastes the cold spearmint of magic on the roof of his mouth. His fingers light up, softly and then so powerfully it nearly blinds him; he closes his eyes, feels the healing magic crack like a lightning bolt from him into her.

He opens his eyes again.

The dragon is unchanged – no, that’s not true, she looks angrier. She rolls one great green-yellow eye to stare at him; her lip lifts sneeringly from the points of her teeth.

“Do you think I haven’t tried that already?” she says. “I have been attempting to cure this disease for longer than you’ve walked the earth, child. I’ve met with clerics before. I’d thought you the cleverest of them…obviously, I was mistaken.”

He’s still touching her. He feels the slow rise and fall of her breathing, as seemingly ancient and immovable as tides. Underneath it all: a low growling, building and building.

“Regrettable,” says the dragon, and then his world explodes into poisonous smoke.

* * *

The air is filled with two things: ashes and screams of pain. Cerkonos pulls himself to his shaking feet and looks at the remnants of the Fire Ashari. Underneath the burned sky he can see what is left of them: scorched buildings, broken people. His own head throbs with a dull heartbeat of pain as he lifts himself – first one foot, and then the other, and then he pushes himself a few slow steps forward. He cannot meet the children’s eyes.

“It was Raishan,” rasps Calhoun, eyes wide and skin scorched to a blackened crisp. “She opened the portal. She brought it here.”

“Where is Raishan now?” asks Cerkonos.

There is no answer. He looks around his people – his _people_ – but none of them meet his eyes. There is the woman who taught Raishan the basic cantrips; there is the man who let Raishan take his bed. There is the person who lent Raishan their clothes so she would not be overheated on the summit – and all of them are watching the ground, now, their eyes glazed and empty. The portal to the Fire Plane bleeds out a sluggish stream of elementals. It looks terrible, like a wound in the world.

“How could she have done this,” he whispers – more to himself, but he hears a low chuckle of response from behind him.

“That girl,” Lafenne sighs, “that girl…she’s got no love for anything. You know, I taught her, for a time – when I looked in her eyes, I didn’t see anything there. Blackness all the way down. Raishan, she’s a deep dark pit. There’s nothing at the bottom.”

* * *

12\. It would be beneficial to both of us.  
13\. My home lies in the mountains of Wildemount.  
14\. I will compensate you for your efforts.  
15\. The wind is blowing from the east. We’ll make quick time.  
16\. I understand that you are far stronger than I.  
17\. You are a sight for sore eyes, Allura.  
18\. I always keep my promises.

* * *

_My Lord,_

_I beg your sincere pardon for troubling you with provincial worries, but a matter has arisen that could use your wisdom – a few of the village boys have discovered a wyrmling hiding out in one of the barns. They attempted to catch it, but little as it is the creature was wily enough to escape our pursuit. It continues to eat our livestock and avoid our detection._

_What sort of trap could we make for a baby green dragon? How will we catch it and, if we manage to contain it, what should be done with it? I welcome your advice on these matters._

_Best regards,  
Mayor Rowland_

_Mayor Rowland,_

_I must confess that I have never received a missive so puzzling in all my years. Nor have I heard of a baby dragon leaving its parents and its nest so quickly to impose on human territory. You find yourself in quite unique circumstances, I fear._

_Still: if the dragon is in fact a wyrmling, as you claim, then it is also stupid enough to be easily baited, trapped, and disposed of. I recommend the shiniest objects your village can spare. Flattery may be of more value than gemstones, but be careful – even a baby green dragon is quite proficient at sensing liars._

_I wish you the very best of luck in catching the pest. Once you’ve killed it, a vial of its blood would be a most welcome present._

_Cordially yours,  
Lord Ironbelly_

_My Lord,_

_I know not who else to turn to for help. Our village has been overrun by a green dragon, which has claimed us as its playthings and as a source of convenient food. This beast is merely a child – the size of a large dog, perhaps – but its viciousness and cunning cannot be understated._

_You may recall that Jenna Rowland was the mayor of our small town. No longer. She attempted to flatter and bribe the beast, so that we might lure it to a space where we could attack, but the dragon laughed at her. Such a laugh I have never heard. It smiled with its knife-teeth and said that it knew everything about her, including what business she got up to with our village’s baker. When the good mayor blanched, the dragon struck and killed her._

_“Anyone else who attempts to cross me,” it said, “I will destroy. Your brain or your body, I don’t care. Serve me, entertain me, or I will raze your village to the ground.”_

_My Lord, we have done as it has asked to the best of our abilities, but we are merely a simple farming village. There is not much we can supply._

_I beg you to assist however you can – soldiers or traveling mercenaries or mages or anything you can spare. I do not know how much longer we can survive this._

_Best regards,  
Mayor Payne_

* * *

An incomplete list of items recovered from the abandoned lair of a green dragon:

1\. Approximately 32,000 gold pieces and 20,000 platinum pieces  
2\. A collection of spellbooks written in ancient languages  
3\. A trunk containing empty potion & poultice bottles  
4\. Alchemist’s supplies  
5\. A weathered staff of charred elm wood  
6\. A worn and well-loved wooden puzzle box  
7\. Three platinum greatswords, scarred and pitted from acid  
8\. Approximately 56 diamonds  
9\. Four obsidian orbs  
10\. A collection of journals written in Draconic

* * *

She lunges for the dragon, sword outstretched; it skids madly backwards with its jaws wide open. Again she hears the burbling of the terrible acid that lines its throat. She steels herself, holds her breath—

—and the dragon makes a high thin screech like metal on metal. It staggers. Coughs. “_Leila_,” it rasps, “you insufferable—” and then it lunges for her again, but it’s too late. She has her sword jabbed through its poisonous throat. When she pulls her sword free, the dragon wails.

“I will kill you!” she shouts. “Foul beast. Monstrous wyrm. I will end your reign of terr—”

The beating of its wings knocks her over. It launches itself towards the ceiling and scrabbles for purchase against the rock. Teetering precariously on a ledge, it coughs up blood that hisses when it touches the ground.

She screams at it. “Come down here!” she yells. “Fight and die with honor, you—”

“_Honor_,” rasps the dragon, “is worthless. It accomplishes—” (it stops to cough) “nothing. I have not lived this long because of _honor_, and I certainly won’t die for it. You’re welcome to your honor. I refuse to die like an animal.”

She screams again, for lack of anything better to do. Then she shoves her sword into its sheath and begins to climb up the cave wall.

The muffled, rustling, metallic sounds of the dragon inspecting its scales. “_Leila_,” it whispers again, “Leila, I will rip your soul out of your body, I will bring rot to the roots of every tree in the world—”

“My name – isn’t – _Leila_ – and I don’t – like – trees,” she spits as she climbs.

A bemused silence. The dragon looks curiously over the ledge. One lone pustule shines like a pearl on its neck.

“Of course that isn’t your name,” it says. “Idiot child.” Drops of acidic blood spatter from its teeth when it talks; a few hit her face, and she groans in pain despite herself.

“I don’t even know your name,” the dragon says. “I don’t care to. You don’t matter at all to me.” (She keeps climbing as it monologues.) “There are so many names…wise names, brave names. Names of important people. Names of _good _people. All forgotten. Lost to the sands of times. Unremembered.

“At the end of all things,” it says, “the only name that lasts will be mine.”

“The fuck it will,” she spits between her teeth.

“Your bravado is charming,” the dragon says. “No one will remember it once you die. I might, if you beg me to. I could immortalize you. When you die, here in this cave, you could live on. In some small way.”

She puts one gauntleted hand on the ledge and begins heaving herself onto it. She’s just gotten her elbows onto the ledge when a set of green-scaled claws hover in front of her face.

“Or die unremembered and voiceless,” the dragon says. It murmurs an incantation, and then—

* * *

19\. I thought you were clever.

* * *

Tiberius finds the girl sitting by herself in the Fire Ashari village – outside of a hut, cross-legged, a waterfall of dark green hair hiding her visage. He approaches her, decanter held out as a preemptive peace offering. “Hello,” he says. “I have a decanter of magical water. Ah, I mean, the water in and of itself is not magical – at least, I don’t believe so – but it _is_ ever-flowing. Help yourself!”

She lifts her head from dull contemplation of a spellbook, and Tiberius is pinned in her thoughtful green-gold gaze. She slits her eyes. Strangely, terribly, she reminds him of his father.

“I don’t know you,” she says. “You came with the druidling. For the test.”

“I did,” Tiberius says. “Hi! I am Tiberius Stormwind, from Draconia.”

“Draconia,” the druid echoes. She reaches out a lazy hand for the decanter, and he offers it to her with a polite bow. He gestures towards the ground. “May I?”

The druid waves that same lazy hand towards the earth; she brings the decanter to her mouth and drinks from it, long pulls that seem to belong to a creature three times her size. As he sits down – carefully, cross-legged to match – she offers the decanter back.

“It is so _terribly_ dry here,” she says. “So warm.”

“I’d think you would expect that! As a Fire Ashari, and all of that and such.”

“Would you think?” the druid says. A smile ticks at the corner of her mouth and then vanishes again. “I like fire,” she says; a flicker of bright flame flares up on her knuckles and she twists it between her fingers, saying: “when it can be bent to my purposes. It needs a keen intellect to guide it. Without that…well, then it’s only brute force.” She lets the flame go. “There’s no point in it then. Without my cleverness, it’s nothing.”

“I myself—” Tiberius begins, and then a hand politely taps his shoulder: Keyleth. She’s fidgeting, biting at her lower lip.

“Uh, hi,” she says. “I was really hoping to, uh, pass that decanter around some more? So my people can _not_ die of dehydration? If that’s okay?”

“Apologies!” Tiberius says. “I was lending it to my friend here, ah…”

He and Keyleth pause politely, hopefully, waiting for the druid girl to say her name. Instead she raises the decanter to her mouth and drinks for a long and thoughtful silence. Her eyes do not leave Keyleth.

Then she passes the decanter back.

“Thanks!” Keyleth says. She cocks her head to the side, a little bit, birdlike and childlike in one. “Are you…new here? Because I am too. I mean, I’m not new to the Ashari at all, but I’m new to the Fire Ashari – I’m here for my Aramenté, actually, and—”

“No,” the druid says. Keyleth’s mouth closes. Tiberius watches the girl look from Tiberius to Keyleth, Keyleth to Tiberius, Tiberius to Keyleth again.

“I’m only passing through,” the girl says, and she returns to her book.

* * *

“_Melora!_” Keyleth yells, voice cracking and desperate. A vine leaps for Raishan’s throat.

* * *

20\. I’ve always been in awe of the Ashari. What you can do.  
21\. I’m lucky to be here in Pyrah with all of you.  
22\. This place is sacred. I would never, ever break your trust.

* * *

It warms Lafenne’s heart to make Raishan smile – the girl is sly, sarcastic, skittish, but every now and then her lips turn up in pleasure at the wonders of magic or of Pyrah. Her green-gold eyes will glitter, then; she’ll laugh.

When Lafenne tells her that she is finally ready to make the sacred journey to the Fire Plane, Raishan beams. Her white teeth are vivid in her mouth.

“And you trust me?” she says. “With this task?”

“Of course we do, child,” Lafenne says warmly. She places a hand on the curve of Raishan’s head as she says _child_; there is a pang of sympathy in her heart at Raishan’s sudden twitch. She tries to hide it, the girl does – but Lafenne can see when people aren’t used to gentleness. When they flinch at the touch. She is trying to heal whatever is broken in Raishan’s soul, one little piece at a time, but this reminder of the importance of her work breaks her heart.

“Come, child,” she says, and stands. Raishan follows. Lafenne leads her to the gateway to the Fire Plane – and Raishan stares at it with an expression of childlike wonder that is so enormous it seems almost exaggerated.

“Careful now,” Lafenne says. “Don’t move ahead of me.”

“I respect your authority absolutely,” Raishan says. She hovers behind Lafenne as they take one step and then another into the Fire Plane. Lafenne feels a smile tucking itself into the corner of her own mouth as Raishan’s eyes dart around the Fire Plane, taking it in and memorizing it. The girl has a keen mind, Lafenne’ll give her that. She’s nearly smarter than any of them.

“Your role,” Lafenne says, “as one of us, is to preserve the inherent balance of all things.”

“Why?”

Lafenne stops, sandals planted in the melting earth of the Fire Plane. Raishan is standing there, only a few steps through the rift, her head cocked curiously to one side.

“Because it is essential, child,” Lafenne says. “If the world falls out of balance…”

“Then?” Raishan says, stepping closer. She brings with her a gust of sulfur and hot wind, and the strange subtle scent of rot. The air in the Fire Plane is temperamental at the best of times; today it is unusually wild.

“Then catastrophe will come to us all,” Lafenne whispers. She watches the bright lights of Raishan’s eyes dim and die, overcome by dullness.

“And that’s all?” Raishan says. “Catastrophe?”

“That’s all there needs to be,” Lafenne says. She looks into Raishan’s eyes and sees the flickering of some deep intelligence, smothered to death under apathy. In the distance she hears the great red dragon scream in pain.

* * *

WANTED:

AN ADVENTURING PARTY TO DEFEAT RAISHAN, THE RUINATION OF THE STORMCREST

REWARD:

2000 GOLD AND A SHARE OF HER TREASURES

THE GREEN DRAGON RAISHAN HAS SETTLED IN THE JUNGLES OF THE RIFENMIST PENINSULA, AND HAS GROWN A LAIR OF THORNS AND SPITE TO CLOAK HERSELF IN. MANY ADVENTURERS HAVE TRIED TO DEFEAT HER AND FAILED. WILL YOU BE THE ONE TO END HER REIGN OF TERROR?

BE WARNED THAT THE DRAGON IS RELATIVELY YOUNG, BUT MAKES UP FOR INEXPERIENCE WITH CUNNING AND RAGE. ATTEMPTS TO NEGOTIATE WITH HER HAVE FAILED. IF BORED BY CONVERSATION OR COMBAT, SHE WILL LAY WASTE TO EVERYTHING IN HER PATH. PREPARE TO ENTERTAIN THE BEAST. FAILURE TO DO SO WILL FELL YOU AND YOUR COMPANIONS BEFORE YOU EVEN BROACH THE EDGES OF HER TERRITORY.

BEWARE HER POISON BREATH, HER BITE, AND HER SAVAGE CLAWS.

FIGHT FOR YOUR PEOPLE! FIGHT FOR YOUR HONOR! INQUIRE FURTHER AT THE OFFICE OF THE LAWMASTER.

* * *

23\. I’m lonelier than you could ever imagine.  
24\. I’m not lonely at all.  
25\. I will see your civilization crumble into dust.  
26\. I refuse to die like an animal.

* * *

_The identity of the dragon in question is said to be Raishan, the Ruination of the Stormcrest – absent from her lair for some fifty years, with her current location unknown. Among the treasures uncovered from the heart of the poisoned wood are a series of journals written in Draconic. After intense study, scholars found that the journals were written in cipher – a code so laborious and dense as to be indecipherable._

_Translations continue to this day. Below is one excerpt from what many believe to be the dragon’s first journal:_

_ TUMBLING SPINNING FALLING WINGS CATCH I FLY_  
_EXULTANT EXULTANT_  
_YOUNG_  
_FIFTEEN EXULTANT BODY UNBROKEN_  
_YOUNG ALONE_  
_HAPPIEST_

* * *

The other druids in the temple are screaming. Leila crouches behind the altar, sobbing, praying to Melora – nothing coherent, just an endless stream of _please, please, please_. Beneath that: anger. She is scraped raw by her fury. That someone came to this place – this sacred place – and ripped, and tore, and broke, and took: unforgivable. Leila is terrified, but that doesn’t mean she won’t kill them.

The doors to the temple’s main room slam open. She hears scraping thuds as something enormous takes its slow and thoughtful time walking towards the altar.

“Leila,” breathes a crackling hiss of a voice. It sing-songs, it slithers in the dark to lick into Leila’s ears. “Why don’t you come out?” it says. “I know that you’re in here. You would never abandon the altar, Leila, you have always been too pious for that.”

Leila’s hands are clenched on the ivy-covered stone of the altar; they’re shaking. They are not shaking from fear. She notices this, and acknowledges it, and stands.

Across the room is a green dragon. She is coated liberally in the blood of Leila’s sisters; a scrap of wet soft flesh hangs between her teeth. When the dragon curls her lips back in a smile Leila can see green-brown fabric shoved into her gums. Leila’s stomach tries to shake itself out of her body.

She swallows it down. “Raishan.”

“It certainly took you long enough to put the pieces together,” the dragon says conversationally. She steps forward: scrape-thud, scrape-thud. “The rest of your…_sisters_ did not realize until I told them. The look of surprise and betrayal in their eyes…a shame that you’ve missed it, Leila.”

She stops. Her eyes are green and gold and glowing. “I could show you, if you’d like.”

Leila’s shaking hands shoot out in front of her and she fires a Sunbeam. The dragon lazily lifts a talon and waves it; the spell dissipates.

“There’s no need for that, child,” Raishan says. “If you don’t resist, I can make your death quick and painless. I’ve already gotten what I came here for.”

“What is that,” Leila says. “What do you _want?_”

Raishan considers this for a moment. “Entertainment,” she says. For a moment her voice is ancient and tired and hollow – like a deep well, like a hole in the night sky that could eat up all the stars.

“You want something interesting?” Leila says, voice starting to tremor. “Something to fill your time? Something – a puzzle? A mystery? A _game?_”

The dragon stalks closer. Her pupils have expanded to devour the light. “_Yes_,” she hisses, low and exultant. “Are you going to entertain me, Leila of the temple? Little Wilddaughter?”

“Try me,” Leila says, and casts Sunburst.

* * *

i. The origin of this name is unknown. It is very possible that Raishan was named as such by her sire, but since little to nothing is known about Raishan’s genealogy this remains merely a hypothesis.

ii. Known for poison and wicked intelligence.

iii. So called by Vox Machina, a legendary band of adventurers and heroes of Tal’Dorei.

iv. The Chroma Conclave was a short-lived collection of chromatic dragons widely rumored to be brought together by Raishan. The cunning required to convince chromatic dragons – known to be temperamental and selfish – to band together cannot be understated.

v. Originated by Lord Ironbelly of Ortem-Vellak, this title would follow Raishan through her early years of destruction.

vi. So called by the natives of the Rifenmist Jungle, who would often leave Raishan gifts and intricate stories in the hopes that she would spare them. (She rarely did.)

vii. For a time Raishan raged up and down the western coast of Tal’Dorei, choosing clerics and magic-users for brief periods before brutally destroying them and any temples to the Wildmother. Worshippers of the Wildmother believed that Raishan was a disease sent by Melora to punish the unworthy, hence the descriptor.

viii. Raishan spent a period of time with the Fire Ashari; the reason she chose to use her given name instead of a pseudonym will likely never be known.

ix. At time of writing, the village of Pyrah has been rebuilt and their numbers are beginning to grow once more. We must all be grateful that Raishan was stopped and her life’s work of destruction can be undone.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please kudos + comment if you enjoyed! :)


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